War Prayer
by PeterEliot
Summary: A brief, emotional exchange between the game's narrator and Yellow 4 shortly before her fatal flight. Reviews are most appreciated.


My first and only AC04 fanfic.  A full year after getting the game, I thought to myself, "Why not?" and whipped up this story in a couple of days.  Chronologically, the story takes place between the resistance's bombing of the Erusean airbase at San Salvacion and ISAF's assault on Stonehenge.

War Prayer

PeterEliot

            "That looks good.  Thanks," said the woman, smiling at the mirrored reflection of the little boy behind her.  

            The boy removed his hands from her nape.  The slim necklace of gold banded the olive-complexioned neck in an elegant arc.  Sitting down on the trunk that he had been standing upon—he was too short to reach her neck, even when she was seated—, he watched the woman in uniform quietly continue with her morning business.  Evidently she wasn't going to bother with make-up today.  She must be expecting a busy day, he thought.  

Lifting her smooth black mane, she put under the collar the necklace he had just helped her don.  The golden cross dangling at its center glinted briefly before disappearing under the garment's shadow.  

"Why do you put it on, if you're going to have it covered?" the boy asked.

The woman looked at him and smiled.  "It's not always for others to look at," she replied.

"What else is a necklace for?"

"Well, sometimes you wear one for the sake of wearing it, even if no one will see it."  She fingered the small cross inside the collar.  "I've worn this since I was as little as you."

The boy considered this for a second, estimating the years in his head.  "Since before you could fly a plane?" he asked again.

"Since long, long before I could fly a plane," she confirmed.  

"Mom had a necklace like that," he said.

At his pensive words, her eyes softened.  She knew that memory was all that remained of the boy's family.  

"Did she, really?"

"Not really a necklace—but a cross, a little bigger than yours, with a string tied to it so it would be easy to carry.  She sometimes held it when she prayed."

"Yes.  I do that, too, sometimes."

The boy's face betrayed quick surprise.  "Really?"

"Yes.  That isn't so hard to believe, is it?"

"But what do you pray about?"

"Oh, a lot of things.  These days, mostly for my friends, for other pilots—that they'll make it back safely."

"And for the captain, too?" he said.  Captain was how they often referred to the taciturn leader of her squad, the famed Yellow 13.

She smiled, nodding.  "Especially for the captain."

"I don't think he needs to be prayed for 'especially,'" the boy said innocently.  Yellow 13's prowess in battles was all but legendary among friends and foes.

"Oh, but people like that need prayer all the more—even if they don't know it themselves."

"I still don't think he needs it," the boy said, after a thoughtful moment.

"You don't, do you?" said she, returning to brushing her hair.

"No.  I think the pilots that'll be fighting him will need prayer a lot more."

The hand that wielded the brush stopped.  Dark eyes turned to him once more, sober and grave.

"You think they'll ever attack this place?" the boy said, not awaiting her response to his last statement.  He didn't quite know, himself, where the words were coming from.

"They already have," the pilot answered quietly.

"Yeah.  But you think they'll try to come here with tanks and fighters?"

"Maybe."

"Then you and the captain and the others will go out and fight them?"

"Jim..."  She sighed, and turned to face him fully.  She crouched forward so that she was peering into his face.  

The boy, perched atop her largest trunk, kicked the air with his dangling feet.  His eyes were down, brooding and almost petulant. 

When she spoke, her words were soft.  "Do you want them to beat us, so you can have your home back?"

He made no reply.  

"It's all right for you to wish that, you know," she added.

"It is?" he said, frowning.

"We are not liked here.  People—your neighbors, I mean—can't be expected to like us.  It's only natural that they don't."

His frown got only deeper.  These were no words he expected from her or any member of the occupying force, though he had made concession to himself long ago that she and her elite colleagues, all under Yellow 13's illustrious lead, stood apart from other troops, in spirit as well as in skills.

"You're strange," the boy finally said.  "People got in trouble for saying things like that.  And they weren't Eruseans."

"You are right," she admitted.  "But you remember what the captain always tells the new people that come here?"

He cocked his head, rummaging through his memory for the familiar sight of Yellow 13 addressing trainees.  

"'We are, all of us, an unwelcome presence in this city,'" the woman quoted for him.  And then he remembered the words, too.  "'We are uninvited guests who have taken over the host's house and made thieves of themselves.  We must not forget this... because the host never will.'"

"...He's the strangest, of all of you," the boy said, grouchily.  "He calls himself a thief.  If he doesn't like that, why doesn't he do something about it?"

Her lips curled in a sad, accepting smile.  "Being a grown-up is difficult.  Being a soldier makes it even more difficult.  It means that sometimes you have to do things you don't agree with—and still do them to the very best of your ability.  The captain understands that."

He said nothing for a long while.  His face was twisted in a tormented, un-childlike grimace as he debated over whether he should tell her.  After all, he couldn't find the nerve to tell the man, despite the anger within him.  Why not, then, tell the one that was the closest to him?  Surely she would understand.

When the shadow over the child's face showed no sign of lifting, she spoke again.  "He's a kind man, the captain.  You know he is.  And he likes you a lot."

He maintained his silence.  He thought he should like to leave now.  Conversation with grown-ups was just not his thing, yet.

"Do you like us, Jim?"

He raised his head and beheld the pilot's gentle countenance.  She and her friends manned machines that spewed forth fire and destruction.  He reached inside his oversized jacket—on permanent loan from an Erusean officer—and traced the cool surface of his harmonica.  He then slowly nodded once.  The gesture was almost reluctant.  

"I'm glad.  We like you, too," she said.  She patted his cheek and turned back to the mirror, running the brush carefully through her long unadorned tresses.  A barely perceptible tremor marred the otherwise nimble, efficient movement of her left hand.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked.

She tossed him a reassuring grin and touched her left forearm, where bandages encircled the flesh underneath the harsh fabric of the uniform.

"Just a small tug now and then," she said brightly.  "I appreciate you helping me out today, Jim.  You're very sweet."

"You're welcome," he said.  "You sure, though, it won't bother you when you're flying?"

"No problem.  It only bugs me with small things—like holding a fork, for example.  I dropped it twice during supper yesterday.  It was quite embarrassing, let me tell you."  She flashed him a smirk.  "I'll be fine.  Don't worry about me."

"All right."  He went back to kicking the empty air.

"How's Marie doing?" she said, putting down the brush.

He raised his chin quickly.  "Fine.  Why?"

"Oh, no reason.  I haven't seen her in a while."

"Umm... I think she's visiting her grandma, for a week," he said, recalling the words he had been told to recite.

"Ah," she said, knowingly.  "I see why you're fidgety today.  All lonely by yourself, eh?"

"No," he hotly replied.

She laughed and stood from her dresser.  It was a very poor-looking dresser, no more than a rude collection of toiletry at a corner of the military bunk room.  It was nothing compared to the nice oaken piece of furniture his mother had owned.  Reaching for her jacket, she ruffled his sandy hair.  "You are so cute, both of you," she said.

He flushed, feeling embarrassed, and ashamed.  Ashamed for lying to her.

_"I can't see her face,"_ Marie, the barkeep's daughter, had told him.  _"Pa's responsible for her getting hurt...  _I'm _responsible for her getting hurt.  I know we did the right thing, that we are doing the right thing, but I... I just can't see her face now."_

"Umm...," he began awkwardly, as the woman made ready to leave the trailer.

"What is it, Jim?"

"Marie says... Marie says she's sorry."  

_Traitor!_ his consciousness called him.

"Sorry for what, sweetie?"

"Well... A couple weeks back, when she dumped that tray on your lap.  She says she's sorry she did that."  

_Liar!_ a voice said again from within him.  Shut up, he told the voice.  It's not a complete lie.  She _did tell me she wished she hadn't done it.  On purpose, that is._

"Oh, that.  She apologized already."

Only because her pa made her do it, he said to himself.  "Yeah, but she says she's sorry again."

"Well, when you see her next time, tell her that she's a very well-mannered young lady, and I'm not at all angry with her.  Do that for me?"

"Okay.  Are you guys gonna be busy today?"

"Probably.  After what's happened, the captain wants us to run full checks on everything.  I'll see you later, Jim.  Don't forget to close the door when you leave."

With a final pat on his head, she was about to go.

"He killed my family," he said to her backside.

The pilot was still for a protracted second before she turned back.  It was another moment before she spoke.

"What did you say?"

He looked down at the gray floor.  

"The captain.  He... killed my family."

Speechless, she stared at the boy who sat motionlessly.  She waited for further elaboration.  When none came, she walked back to him.  Squatting down before the boy, she deliberated on her next words.

"Jim...  How do you mean?  How did the captain—"

"He shot down a plane," he said, matching her gaze with sudden resolve.  "It fell on my house.  The captain—I saw his plane, with his number on it.  He was flying real low.  I was going to school..."

Neither of them said anything then as they looked into each other's eyes.  Both read fear—of different kinds, admittedly—in the other's face.  

She put a hand over the boy's own that clutched his knees.

"Are you sure?" she finally asked.

He nodded.  His face remained stiff in childish solemnity, but the blue eyes that met her black ones began to fill up with tears.

"They were all there.  Dad... Mom...," he said shakily, frowning again.  He was surprised to taste a new grief in confessing an old sorrow.  One teardrop broke loose and rolled down across the cheek, its descent almost leisurely.  "Mom..."

The pilot gathered the child into her arms.  He began to cry in earnest.  He spoke incoherently in bursts between sobs.  He was angry, then despondent, then angry again.  He relished the fragrant warmth that enveloped him.  He cried.

"Mom..."

"I'm sorry," she crooned, stroking his back.  "I'm so very sorry..."

They spoke no more until his sobs subsided.

"I'm sorry, Jim," she said again when he was quiet.  "I don't know what else to say.  Perhaps—perhaps, once you've grown up, you will have to decide again whether to hate us.  But I am sorry."

            Jim nodded, eyes fixed somewhere around the rank on the pilot's uniform.  He didn't fully understand why she was making another's apology to him.  But it didn't seem to matter.  

Withdrawing just enough to face him again, she spoke hesitantly.  "Are you going to tell him?"

"I wanted to, before," he said.  He then added, "No."  

It wasn't a decision he reached that day.  He had known it for a long time.

She cupped his cheeks in both hands.  Her palms were warm.  "Thank you, Jim," she said, sincerely.  She embraced him again.

The siren's wail started then.

Startled, they both looked up.  There were frantic footfalls outside, and loud knocks on the door.

"Hey, you in there?" came the loud voice.  "I'm coming in!"

The door was thrown open.  A tall pilot peered in, helmet in hand.

"What's going on?" asked the woman, standing up.

"The radar just picked up two dozen bogies coming this way.  They're headed straight for the desert.  I think the crazy blokes are going for Stonehenge."  The newcomer then noticed the boy on the trunk, and the drying tears at his red eyes.  "Hey, what's up with the kid?  You okay, Jim?"

"Go on, Terry.  I'll be out in a second," she said.

"We're off in three minutes.  Hurry," he said, taking his leave.  He waved at the boy as he ran off.  "Take care, big guy."

"Okay," Jim answered, waving back.

"Listen," she addressed the boy again.  "We'll talk about this again when I come back, all right?  But don't stay at the base.  It might get dangerous soon.  Go home—I'll come and see you at the bar."

"Okay."

"Good.  See you later, Jim.  Thank you."

She laid a kiss on his brow.  Then she hurried out after her comrade, sprinting towards the hangar. 


End file.
